Clarity
by Fanwoman
Summary: The Atlantis experience from the point of view of a family member left behind. Spoilers for "The Siege, Part 1," character death
1. The Vision

NOTES: In Letters from Pegasus, Dr. Weir recorded video condolence messages for the families of all the people she had lost. But what about those who died after that? This is the story of dealing with one especially important death. I adopted this plot bunny. It was given into my care by MurdocsAngel and PurpleYin. I hope I have done it justice, and you don't mind where I went with it. Thank you, PurpleYin, for betaing this.

DISCLAIMER: _Stargate: Atlantis_ and all things associated with it belong to other people.

SPOILERS: through Siege, Part 1 for SGA, Covenant for SG1

RATING: K+

* * *

CLARITY 

PART 1

THE VISION

I knew.

It was more than flimsy intuition or cool deduction. It was more than accepting the spiritual and psychological implications of waking to see him at the foot of my bed, to hear him say, "I'm sorry," despite his being impossibly far away. It was a deep, inescapable knowledge that seemed to seep from each cell, a mitochondrial frisson that resonated through every fiber of my being with merciless insistence. I knew he was dead.

I knew, yet no one would listen --not my mother or father, not my sister or brothers. Only grandma believed in what I was experiencing, and it made her cry. That set my family against me, forced me to go it alone in this morbid quest of mine.

I knew, yet no one would confirm what I knew. No one would confess the truth. I contacted countless authorities to try tracking him down, even enlisted the help of friends across the Pond, had them badger their own government on my behalf, all to no avail. No one would admit to knowing anything. It was as though some black void had swallowed him whole.

I still don't know which was worse --knowing, having no one believe me or having no one tell me the truth.

And then it arrived.


	2. The Video

NOTES: My first multi. Thank you, PurpleYin, for betaing this.

DISCLAIMER: _Stargate: Atlantis_ and all things associated with it belong to other people.

SPOILERS: through Siege, Part 1 for SGA, Covenant for SG1

RATING: K+

* * *

CLARITY 

PART 2

THE VIDEO

We received a video letter from him. It was hand-delivered by a laconic SAS officer who departed as soon as the disc was signed for. My mother wept with joy, and my sister was relentlessly smug, as though this paltry evidence refuted the cold ache that had resided in my bones for weeks.

He was smiling into the camera, that tight, close-lipped grin. He spoke in his smooth, deep voice as though nothing was wrong, but his eyes told a different story. Seeing it cut me. I wanted to believe as much as the rest of my family. Some untenable chamber within my heart was filled with celebration for this vain proof of his existence, but I didn't believe. I couldn't believe. I knew he was dead.

Much later, I learned there was supposed to be more to it, not just his message, but we never saw that. Perhaps if we had, my life would be very different now. Some well-intentioned or over-secretive bureaucrats somewhere decided not to include the other part that would have supported what I knew. I try not to curse them for it, though even now, when all the anguish and anger have washed through me, I still occasionally feel a sparks of resentment and incredulity. I console myself with the thought that, were I in the same position, I do not know if I would have chosen any differently.

So I had only his brief tidings to work with. My mother jealously hoarded the disc, but with my grandma's help, I was able to copy it without mother's notice. I remember the ridiculous, giddy thrill my success gave me, like the hero in some spy show outsmarting the evil villain. Once I had it, I poured all my resources into unlocking its hidden truths. My money drained into programs, research, hardware. If I couldn't wring every drop of information from it, I was not by brother's sister. I would not betray his intellectual legacy. I would not let his death fade, unacknowledged, into infinity. I would prove I was right because his truth was more important than any ephemeral illusion of happiness.

The background had been blurred after the initial recording. That was the easiest part to deal with. There are only so many programs that can create such an effect with that type of video file. Of course, it was possible the file had been converted from some other format, but Occam's razor held true in this regard. It was just a matter of running through the reverse process of each program until the image became distinct. Although it seemed unremarkable, what I found in the background ended up being a bit more complicated.

My country possesses experts with exhaustive knowledge in nearly any topic you can imagine. It never occurred to me none of them would be able to identify the details in the architecture behind my brother. It was like going around in circles. Each time one specialist failed, I would be referred to another until I eventually ended with the one I'd consulted first. Were it not for progress in other areas, my frustration would have overwhelmed me.

Although the nameless officials actively obscured anything revealing from the video, they did a surprisingly poor job with the audio. Even so, the process was more complex than cleaning up the visuals. Not only did it require me to purchase more obtrusive hardware, which raised questions from my parents, but figuring out if unknown sounds are as they should be is infinitely more difficult than being able to look at an image to determine its clarity. Then again, perhaps that's why they didn't put as much effort into altering it. How can you analyze a sound that only a handful of people will recognize and none would admit to knowing?

Unlike working with the single background image, which could be circulated either in person or anonymously through hardcopies, I found myself exploiting the internet for my best chance with the peculiar little sounds I discovered. It was when I began consulting audio aficionados that my world truly began to change.

I knew my brother had worked on a top secret project. I knew those he worked for felt the need to alter his solitary personal message in more than six months in order to maintain their secrecy. Naturally, I took precautions. My equipment was not networked. Multiple security systems protected the computer I used to connect to the web, including one of my variations on a program my brother had developed. I also routed my signal through a veritable maze of connections. I used every trick my brother had ever taught me and everything I'd learned since then. Only a highly skilled professional could have hacked their way through to my system, but that's what happened shortly after I'd made contact with a Russian and a Czech.

I came home from a lecture at uni to find my main computer so infested by a virus that I had to wipe the harddrive. Since I'd compartmentalized everything on separate systems, very little was lost. Seems one of them snuck something in with their response that slipped past my security. When I reconnected with the Czech and the same thing happened again, I sent a nasty little thank you program that I imagine required them to wipe their own computer. Then I tried the Russian only to get a brief apology, reneging on the earlier offer. The tone was so formal compared to the hacker chat of the first message, it was as though someone else had written it or someone was looking over the writer's shoulder. I don't know what they were thinking. How could these two situations result in anything but more determination? I couldn't speak to anyone about it, but at last I had confirmation I was onto something!

And then I got a phone call.


	3. Ivan

NOTES: I've been asked about Ivan's identity. There are two, unnamed, white haired Russian men on Atlantis; Ivan's related to one of them. Thank you, PurpleYin, for betaing this.

DISCLAIMER: _Stargate: Atlantis_ and all things associated with it belong to other people.

SPOILERS: through Siege, Part 1 for SGA, Covenant for SG1

RATING: K+

* * *

CLARITY 

PART 3

IVAN

He said his name was "Ivan," that we'd chatted online. Claiming he'd found the tune I'd wanted to hear, he played a short piece of music. Within it were three of the five mystery noises from my brother's video. At first, it scared the hell out of me. It was physically impossible for anyone to have externally accessed that computer. So how did this person get those sounds, let alone find my mobile phone number? Of course, the people directly involved could always make live recordings. After my initial shock, however, I wondered, if they'd somehow broken into my room to gain entry to my computer with the audio, why not use all five?

Ivan kept his phraseology vague enough to mean nothing to someone unaware of the subtext, and the pattern of his speech soon reminded me of the first message from my reluctant Russian. When he asked about a friend of mine who'd recently traveled abroad, I told him I hadn't heard from "Chris" in months, then out of the blue, I received a message three weeks ago. He said he knew the feeling, that the same thing had happened to him. But what do you expect from people on a prolonged holiday? He bemoaned not being able to travel, himself, because if he could, he'd meet me at Coffee Cup to chat like we used to do. Maybe in one or two years he'd find the time to visit. Then he wished me well and hung up. The whole conversation lasted under three minutes.

I'd never heard of Coffee Cup, and after a thorough search, I found nothing with a similar name within a hundred miles. But Mocha Mug was a seedy little cafe located just south of uni and run by Iron Curtain immigrants. It was a crucial turning point. Ivan knew too much. I could either put myself in further jeopardy by following his lead, or I could give up. My mind was racing, both in fear and awe of the possibilities. Was it worth my life to uncover the truth about my brother's death? I rationalized that if Ivan was connected with the people my brother worked for, I was at risk no matter what I did, so I went.

I wasn't sure if Ivan's "one or two" meant the time of day or the time elapsed since the call, but I made it there in under an hour. It was a long, narrow shop with a bar along one wall and little booths along the other. The lone large table by the front window was manned by a burly quartet of laughing, smoking, coffee-drinking Russians who dressed and smelled as though they'd just come in from a hard night's fishing. It so captured the image of early twentieth century life that you'd never guess the place had any connection to the information age. I thought the few stares I drew were because my appearance suggests I'm not of European ancestry, but I later learned it was because I was neither a regular nor a Russian. When the salt and pepper haired man behind the counter asked for my order, I said Ivan had recommended trying what he usually drinks. At the mention of Ivan, the man broke into a big grin, offered me his hand and introduced himself as Viktor, but to just call him Vik. He'd said he'd been waiting for me and that any friend of Ivan's was a friend of Vik's.

Growing up in a big family, I wasn't used to keeping secrets. After nearly two months of searching and secrecy, after so much effort and many drawbacks, after having the most important thing in my life isolate me from my family, Vik's unconditional fellowship caused some previously hidden strain within me to snap. Without a shred of self-consciousness, I broke down right there in the middle of the little cafe. In moments, Vik was beside me. With a comforting arm around my shoulders and a soothing babble of half-English to console me, he led me to the back of the shop.

I've looked back on that morning and can only compare it to Alice's trip down the rabbit hole or perhaps Neo's choice of the red pill. Through a short hall, past the bathroom, up a narrow flight of stairs, the door opened to a hacker's heaven. From floor to ceiling, the long walls were covered in racks of every imaginable piece of computer equipment. The lighting was indirect and diffused to prevent glare. At both ends hummed refrigeration units to keep the plethora of equipment from overheating, and the walls, floors and ceiling were covered by a material that caused the room to be dead to nearly any kind of uninsulated signal.

Normally, several people use the room at any given time, but there was only one person then, a woman about my mother's age with a presence as commanding as Vik's was amiable and a shocking pair of white streaks at her temples that wound through her thick, jet black braid. She took one look at me and started a heated discussion with Vik. Whether due to my inclusion into their secret or my sniffling, pitiful state, they've never told me what that argument was about. All I could understand were the words Ivan, Gate and a few random computer terms. But eventually, Vik calmed her, and she introduced herself as Ursula. She offered me a tissue and a hot mug of milk tea, then sat me down in front of a terminal. After connecting to a private chat, she patted me on the shoulder and followed Vik downstairs.

In my daze, I just sat there, taking in my surroundings and sipping the exceptional tea. Then the cursor moved.

I: Hello, Nic. You need to be more careful. We can chat here in safety.

N: Who are you?

I: A friend of your brother's. He told me to keep an eye on you. He'd be proud of that firewall, but it can only do so much when your wire's been tapped.

N: Do you know what's happened to him?

I: Yes and no. I know he was recruited into a top secret multinational project, but my suspicions as to where he is may seem far-fetched to you. I'd like to bring you up to speed, if I may.

N: Just knowing I'm not insane helps.

I: You're not insane. Do you remember the incident with Alec Colson?

N: The businessman who showed us aliens are among us.

I: You find the possibility unlikely?

N: I'd never really thought about it.

I: How likely do you think it is that a meteor shower massive enough to completely destroy an entire US fleet could strike without anyone seeing it coming or causing any residual tsunami?

N: That never made sense to me.

I: If it wasn't a meteor shower, would anything keep the US government from hunting down and punishing those responsible?

N: It seems unlikely.

I: Yet there've been no reprisals.

N: It could have been a military experiment gone wrong.

I: And risk thousands of lives and billions in equipment? If they were capable of something that massive, then why aren't the other governments of the world up in arms about it?

N: Perhaps they are, in secret.

I: You think so?

N: I hadn't really thought about it.

I: Well, you think about it, research it and give me a decent argument how that might work next time.

N: Next time?

I: You've been at MM long enough to have enjoyed your tea. It's Friday. Do you have a bookbag or anything else that might suggest you're studying?

N: Got it.

I: You like the tea?

N: Yes.

I: It's Russian, you know. So, you'll be back?

N: With bells on.

I: That might be conspicuous.

N: How will I know when to come again?

I: I have your number, remember? Next time, I'll try to have the Czech join us.

N: THAT Czech? Why? Do you know

I: I know, but it's not her fault.

N: How is it not?

I: She's just like you, trying to find out what's happening to a loved one, but she doesn't have the kind of money and accessibility you do. Her government found her and decided to use her. Fortunately the British are a bit subtler; they've only jacked your line.

N: But I've done enough to rouse suspicion.

I: You have, but as far as they know, you haven't learned anything incriminating. We're going to keep them thinking that way. You can do that, right?

N: You make it sound as though that might be different from what I've been doing so far.

I: He mentioned you're too hard on yourself. Be proud. You've done remarkable work and made choices that would have sent meeker souls running.

N: If you say so.

I: I do. Besides, Ursula doesn't allow just anyone access to her inner sanctum. Have faith. We'll find him. Until next time.

N: Thank you.

I: My pleasure. Take care.

Thus began my double life. Grad student by day, international cyber spy by night. In many ways, it made my life easier to have a physical separation between my family life and my obsession. I still needed to maintain the illusion of my quest at home, but it was like having a boyfriend you never introduce to your parents. They might have preferred to be more involved, but they accepted the situation more gracefully than my earlier hermitage in my room. Despite the relief of a more tranquil home life and the thrill of uncovering bits of the big picture, the truth that drove me always lurked in the corners of my mind, casting a pall over each accomplishment.

Working for a Russian intelligence agency, Ivan had access to revealing information about a long list of events with questionable governmental explanations dating back years. As the evidence piled up, and my own research supported his findings, he convinced me Colson had been right, that there was an international conspiracy to hide the existence of something truly cosmic, a means of travel the likes of which is rarely seen in conventional science fiction. Instead of using ships, special Gates created by aliens and uncovered on Earth link us to Gates on other worlds. He referenced the television series Wormhole X-treme as an example. It didn't really catch on here, but I was able to download a few episodes. Ivan has never been certain if the show was produced to get the public comfortable with the idea or to make disavowing it easier.

His own government had once possessed such a Gate, which is why he believed my brother was no longer on Earth. The sounds in the video placed him near a Gate, but the background was nothing like what Cheyenne Mountain's underground bunkers, or any military facility that might house a Gate, should look like. There were images to back up his claims, but the most convincing of all was the picture of Ivan's white haired father wearing an outfit the same as my brother's. I'm still nowhere near mastering Russian, but to hear the voice of his father mention my brother's name, to know his words were full of praise, it hurt, but in a good way. It proved to me my brother's existence was not unacknowledged, and that meant more to me than I could have realized.

It was also rather persuasive to talk to Mary, the Czech. The poor woman barely got thirty seconds of video, but not only did her bespectacled beau have a variation of the same clothing, in the cleaned up background of her picture was a mysterious piece of technology Ivan is still trying to identify. And Mary was not the last. Slowly, Ivan added over a dozen people from around the world to our little gang, helping to connect us while keeping us under the radar of our respective governments.

Each story and video expanded our knowledge. There were five different backgrounds, some with glimpses into other rooms, which suggested the facility they were working in was fairly large. Their fields ranged all over the sciences as well as medicine and the military. Combined with the fact the same uniform appeared in four different variations, the implication was there must be many more people involved. In one person's video, a laptop revealed a symbol with a winged horse and the word Atlantis, a symbol we have yet to match with anything in our collectively known world.

Communing with the others was therapeutic and empowering, but despite all I learned from them, they could not help prove what I knew to be true. They couldn't tell me he was dead. I never told them about that aspect of my quest. Some cowardly part of me was afraid that, if they knew the true motivation that had begun my search, I might lose the respect and support of my surrogate family just as I had with my real one.

To this day, I'm hopelessly addicted to Russian Caravan tea. I think Ursula does it intentionally, the price she demands of all those who use her toys.

Leading two lives, digging through conspiracy websites, calling tabloid journalists, researching bizarre information, it's enough to make anyone question their sanity. Although they only saw bits and pieces of the whole of my anomalous existence, eventually my parents insisted I see a counselor. I went, but it was pointless. How could such a person help me? Aside from probably ending up in an asylum for admitting belief in what I knew, no words or medication could erase my obsession. Better to hire a priest to exorcise the vicious knowledge from my soul.

There was one small benefit from my attempt. I realized if I could just get someone else to confirm what I knew, I might find closure. I might break free.

And then they came.


	4. Them

NOTES: Thank you, PurpleYin, for betaing this.

DISCLAIMER: _Stargate: Atlantis_ and all things associated with it belong to other people.

SPOILERS: through Siege, Part 1 for SGA, Covenant for SG1

RATING: K+

* * *

CLARITY 

PART 4

THEM

After so much work with audio equipment, I'd become quite adept at differentiating sounds. Between that and Ivan's training, I couldn't help but check when I heard an unfamiliar car pull up the drive. The driver was a woman, the passenger a man who carried a small satchel. There was nothing particularly distinctive about either. Perhaps it was some subtle element of their clothes or hair, but my instincts told me they were foreigners. I was downstairs before they'd rung the bell, though my mother answered the door.

The woman introduced herself as Dr. Weir, the man as Dr. McKay, saying they worked with my brother. Mother invited them in, and Dr. Weir smiled when she saw me. "You must be Nicole. Peter told me so much about you." But the man did not smile; he stared in shock, as though seeing a ghost. Of all my siblings, Peter and I look the most alike. Without speaking one word, Dr. McKay had told me all I needed to know. At last confronted with the truth, some part of my psyche broke lose, turning me into a passionless automaton, watching this life-altering event unfold like a detached third party.

Dr. Weir explained she had something important to discuss with the family, and perhaps it would be best if they spoke to everyone all at once. Fortunately, the BMW they'd driven had drawn my little brother downstairs, so he was sent to fetch my father, grandma and sister. I think my mother had sensed asking me to do it would have resulted in a scene. My eldest brother was abroad on business, so there was no need to call him over from his flat. Within five minutes, we were politely settled in the living room with tea and enough tension to snap a steel cable.

They wore no rings, nothing to suggest they were anything other than professional colleagues, but they were like a matched set, equal and opposite, bound by the burden they shared. She was calm and reserved, but try as he might, every ounce of the torment in his soul showed in his eyes. I had never been a particularly religious person, so I empathized with him. Like me, he had no faith to comfort him. Despite the irrational instinct to damn the messenger, I couldn't bring myself to hate him.

She began by telling us what we already knew, that Peter had been a part of a top secret project, a project she had headed. She told us how important his contributions had been, prompting Dr. McKay to elaborate without saying anything specific. He had the tone of someone who had rehearsed his lines, unable to trust an impromptu recital. Then she told us Peter had died in an accident, that his sacrifice had not only insured the survival of the project but also of the many people working on it.

Surprisingly, grandma took it the best. Carefully setting down her cup, she folded her hands in her lap and looked out the window.

At first, my father said nothing, just consoled my weeping mother.

My sister stood and hissed at me, "I hope you're happy," then stormed out. Dr. Weir raised an eyebrow at this.

All the while, Dr. McKay twiddled with a broken bit of pencil, focusing on it as though it could help him cope.

"You're wrong," insisted my brother. "You're lying."

I had never had the option of denial. "Why would they fly all the way to England to lie about such a thing?"

My mother disappointed me by indulging in the same temptation as my brother. "But how do we know..."

"I was there." Dr. McKay set the bit of pencil down next to his untouched cup of tea and met her eyes. "I was the head of a team conducting an emergency operation. A dangerous procedure was required, and I drew the short straw. At the end of the procedure, there were unanticipated complications that trapped Peter. I wanted to get him out, though it would have nullified the operation and put everyone else in jeopardy, but he insisted his rescue should wait until our emergency had passed. He was the one who was supposed to be safe, but then..."

He looked away from my mother, scanning the faces in front of him before putting his head in his hands. Dr. Weir placed a comforting hand on his back; my family said nothing. After a moment, Dr. McKay ran his fingers through his hair and looked back at my mother as though he'd never stopped. "Everything that could go wrong did go wrong. There was nothing we could do to save him."

"Did you try?" My father should not have provoked the sleeping dog that was this man's emotions.

"There was no _try_!" snapped Dr. McKay, anger suddenly flowing off him in waves. "There was only Peter dead or all of us dead! I apologize for obeying your own son's request to _not_ throw my life away needlessly so I could selfishly live to help save the rest of our people. I don't know what I could have been thinking!"

Dr. Weir put her hand on his arm and said, "Rodney." With that one word, that one touch, she quelled his wrath. Looking at her, he returned to himself.

"I...I'm not easy to work with." Dr. McKay spoke to his hands, which had begun fidgeting with the pencil again. Although calmed, his voice was still raw with feeling. "But Peter was one of those rare people who could handle it. Not only that, he did it with a smile." He laughed to himself and looked at my parents. "We have three people doing different aspects of his job --_three_-- and _combined_ they don't equal one Peter. He was brilliant and vital and _my_ responsibility." His gaze returned to the bit of wood and graphite in his hands. "I'm sorry. There's not a day that goes by..."

Dr. Weir put her hand on his back again, but when enough time had passed that it was apparent Dr. McKay had nothing more to say, she began to express her own condolences. Hers were polished and smooth; she had done this before. Despite that, the words of praise and affection rang true and were comforting. It was plain she cared for Peter and was as torn by his loss as Dr. McKay. Then she gave us some line about time and distance making it necessary to cremate Peter's remains, as though there were anyplace on Earth that far away. Apparently all members of her team had agreed to this stipulation before joining.

Wordlessly, Dr. McKay set down the pencil and opened the satchel at his feet. From it, he withdrew a dark, polished wooden box with silver fastenings and an emblem I'd become all too familiar with. It did not bear the name Atlantis, but there was no mistaking the symbol. In my surprise, I must have gasped, because I found everyone staring at me. The rest must have thought my reaction was due to seeing the box containing my brother's remains, but Dr. Weir's look suggested she suspected otherwise.

Dr. McKay carefully set the box on our coffee table, and everyone was quiet for a moment. Then my mother reached out with trembling hands to lift it into her lap. As though that were a sign of permission, Dr. McKay reached into the satchel and pulled out a Mitre soccer ball. It looked practically new. "We were all allowed one unessential personal item," he said. "This was Peter's. He didn't get to play with it outside, but he never tired of figuring out new ways to play with it indoors." He smiled again. "I remember the first time he kicked it around an empty storage room, it was a like a magnet. In less than twenty minutes, he'd drawn out all the other soccer buffs without ever having said a word. He had a lot of friends. We all miss him."

My brother took the ball and left.

Dr. McKay closed the satchel while Dr. Weir explained it held the rest of Peter's personal items. She began making the kind of statements one does when about to leave. Then she set down her cup and stood, extending her hand to my father and thanking my parents for their hospitality. Belatedly, Dr. McKay followed her lead.

I couldn't let them leave without squeezing all the information I could from them, not just for me but for all the others waiting for any scrap of knowledge about the people they loved. "I have a few items to discuss with you, if I may."

"Oh, please, Nicole," began my mother, but she didn't get the chance to finish admonishing me.

"Let her be." They were the first words grandma had spoken since the introductions to our guests. She said it quietly but with enough mettle to let my parents know she would brook no argument on the issue.

"We'd be happy to answer any questions we can," assured Dr. Weir.

"I'll meet you in the front garden." There it would be noisy enough we could talk without being overheard yet secluded enough to not be overseen. I left it to my parents to take them there while I ran upstairs to gather everything I might need.

I'd never prepared for this particular scenario, but my instincts proved reliable. In a few minutes, I joined them at our garden table. Sensing Dr. McKay would be more liberal with his knowledge, I sat next to him and wasn't disappointed. Opening the folder, he said without thinking, "The Prometheus."

"Rodney!"

"What?" Unrepentant, he turned to Dr. Weir. "Elizabeth, aren't you the one who said you'd considered recruiting her? Why should it surprise you she has this kind of information?"

"Her having it and your confirming the validity of it are two different issues."

"What could she do with a name? And who would believe her if she tried?"

I silenced them by playing a recording of the five sounds. Even Dr. Weir couldn't hide that she recognized them.

Gesturing to the folder, I prompted them to continue flipping through the images inside. There were a number of others, like that of the massive ship Dr. McKay had called the Prometheus, which had come from Ivan's intelligence connections, but they were mainly of different pieces of visual information collected from the videos, including each uniform and several pieces of unidentifiable equipment. The last picture was of the Atlantis insignia. Dr. McKay was impressed; Dr. Weir was concerned.

"Where did you get all this?" she asked.

I shrugged. "Will the others be told?"

"Others?"

"Only if there's a death involved," answered Dr. McKay. "There've also been a handful of non critical casualties who've had to leave the project."

"So if they aren't contacted, that means their loved ones are all right?"

"Yes."

"How long will it take before you're done?"

Dr. Weir finally decided there was no point in trying to stonewall me while Dr. McKay was being so open. "Yours is one of the first families we've visited. We should be done in about a week."

I nodded. "When did he die?"

They exchanged a look. Dr. Weir answered. "January fourth."

That was the day I'd seen him at the foot of my bed. "And his last words?"

Twiddling with his piece of pencil again, Dr. McKay didn't meet my eyes. "I'm sorry..."

"Surely you remember." Dr. Weir's voice was a combination of encouragement and astonishment.

"He does, Dr. Weir," I corrected. "Peter's last words were 'I'm sorry.'"

Dr. McKay's head snapped up, his blue eyes startled. I could see he wanted to ask me how I knew but was too afraid to ask.

I closed the folder. "You've taken some of the world's best and brightest. It shouldn't be surprising they come from bright and capable families. Surely you can't expect to keep what's happening a secret from us indefinitely?"

"It's not up to us to decide." There was frustration in Dr. Weir's apology.

Nodding, I stood, and they stood with me. "Thank you for answering my questions."

As she shook my hand in farewell, Dr. Weir confessed, "I wish we could tell you more, let you know about all the unbelievable things Peter saw and all the amazing things he accomplished."

"We all owe him our lives," added Dr. McKay as he took his turn in shaking my hand. He briefly contemplated the broken bit of pencil fisted in his other hand before holding it out to me. "I don't know if you'd want it, but this should really be among his personal effects."

"His straw?" I guessed.

He nodded, and in his eyes I could see a reflection of the horrors he'd endured. "I've kept it as a reminder. It's all I have of him, but if you think you might..." Dr. Weir put a supportive hand on his shoulder.

I contemptuously contemplated the horrid little artifact, a splinter of my brother's death, then my hand reached up of its own accord. I would possess whatever piece of Peter I could, especially this symbol of his sacrifice. Besides, I could think of no better way to express my forgiveness than by taking away this physical manifestation of Dr. McKay's penance. They had brought me the truth; it was the least I could do.

I walked them to their car and bid them farewell. As they drove away, it was as if they had taken some part of me with them. I later realized it was the possibility I might be wrong they'd stolen from me by giving me what I had been searching for so desperately. Finally, I had confirmation that what I knew was true, and it devastated me. Without the focus of my crusade to hold back my grief, the full impact of Peter's death finally fell on me. I would never hear him laugh or be teased by him again. I could never hug him or tickle him. We would never share another movie or meal or confidence. He had been so beautiful, with his mischievous eyes and bright smile and ingenious mind. How could the universe extinguish the vibrant spark that was his life?

My knees gave out under the weight of reality, and I cried on the lawn. It didn't help. If anything, each sob made me want to cry all the harder, but I couldn't have stopped if I'd tried. At the time, it was the only way I could express the gnawing ache in my heart. I stayed there until grandma came to bring me inside.

The tulips were blooming along the drive. It had been nine months and eleven days since I'd last seen my brother alive.

* * *

I told the gang what I'd learned. Only one other lost a loved one. Two of sixteen, a twelve percent mortality rate of our little sampling, the majority of whom are non military. Of the "many people" Dr. Weir had mentioned, I have a feeling ours were not the only two deaths, not with a week's worth of condolences to deliver. Ivan and Mary weren't contacted. 

One month later, just as I was completing my thesis, I was approached by a British intelligence agency. I told them I wasn't interested unless my involvement would lead to my participation in the Stargate program. I start work next Monday.

I don't know how long it will take before I get to Atlantis, but I hope I get to meet Dr. McKay and Dr. Weir again and all the other people who worked with Peter. It's the best way I can think of to honor his sacrifice and remember him. I can't bring back my brother, but maybe I can help preserve the work he gave his life to save and share in the wonder he'd had for it all.

* * *

Dedicated in loving memory to Julie Swanson. 


End file.
